


Fenton Holmes

by TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, CIA agent Fenton Holmes, M/M, Multi, OT3, a bit dark in parts, but generally okay, for now, fourth secret sibling, secret sibling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-06-06 16:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy/pseuds/TheUniverseIsRarelySoLazy
Summary: There is a fourth Holmes sibling... and he's here to make trouble.





	1. Chapter 1

As Mycroft and Fenton lock eyes for the first time, it’s as if time is standing still, even though they only observe the other for a mere few seconds. Both freeze instinctively, eyes wide. They recognise the predator in each other’s eyes, know immediately what the other can do, because they are the same. Fenton has never met anyone, who was the same. Mycroft has. But he’s only ever been as afraid of Eurus.

Now it feels worse. So much worse. Because he feels seen on a level that even Eurus couldn’t achieve. He feels like every single one of his secrets is out in the open. Finally he understands on a deep level why people avoid him.

It’s new. It’s alien. Fear creeps up on him, settles in his body, makes a tremor appear in his hand that he manages to still with sheer willpower. He forces himself to stand upright, walk a few more steps up to the table.

“This is Fenton Holmes,” the CIA agent who had lead him to the room says in a matter-of-fact tone, as if Mycroft’s whole being hasn’t just been shattered and a new world order had taken over.

“Charmed,” Fenton says and his smile seals the deal.

Mycroft can see everything in it, out in the open. That Fenton understands. That he already has a plan, and that Mycroft won’t like it. At all. That Mycroft has already lost every game that they haven’t even started. It should unnerve him. It should make him run for his life. Now, before it’s too late.

But all Fenton’s smile does is make Mycroft want to sink to his knees, right there and then, in pure submission. He has never felt anything like it, and the sensation floods his body without remorse.

Fenton just stands there. And he knows.

“I‘ll leave you to it,” the agent says and leaves the room.

For a split second Mycroft wants to tell her to stay. To not leave him alone with that man, who was nothing like he’s expected. He has all of Siger’s cold charisma. A magnetism that draws you in without question, only to immediately discard you. Mycroft can see his father in Fenton, and it makes him feel small. Young. Inexperienced. There’s nothing of his own mother - the parts that had softened Sherlock and him. He’s their half-brother, with a mother of his own, who had only ever looked out for herself. Cold, calculating, self-sufficient. On top of the world. Everything that Siger had wanted - forced - Mycroft to be, was now standing in front of him. He wonders if his father would’ve preferred Fenton over him. It doesn’t matter now. He’s dead.

The door closes and Fenton invites Mycroft to take a seat, after sitting down himself. The large table is between them, like a barrier. No, a safety measure. Mycroft nods curtly, puts his umbrella against the table and sits down. His legs thank him for the reprieve. It was getting difficult to stand. He has almost given up on hiding anything, realising that his anxiety is clearly visible in the tension of his shoulders, the way he sits straight. Fenton, on the other hand, almost slumps in the chair, legs crossed, fingers laced together.

“Not an accountant, then,” Mycroft opens the conversation, and is proud of his level delivery.

“Not as such,” Fenton replies with a grin. This is a game to him, Mycroft realises. He doesn’t even need to be here. He wants to be here. “It’s what I wanted you to know, Mycroft.”

Fenton’s existence has always been known to Mycroft. Much less to Sherlock. But with Eurus, Mycroft never had any energy left to waste on Fenton’s surveillance. Moved to New York, taken a whole of his father’s money. Mother had died of alcohol poisoning, left Fenton alone when he was sixteen. Apprenticed as a painter, but then changed careers into accountancy. No spouse, small apartment. Regular work. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Nothing out of the ordinary. That alone should’ve been suspicious in itself. Fenton was a Holmes. A Holmes is never ordinary. But he was far away, with no connection to their life in London. A variable you didn’t need to account for. Until now.

“You have me at a disadvantage,” Mycroft says.

“In more ways than you can imagine.”

There’s that smile again. It’s so effortlessly superior that every instinct in Mycroft’s body screams. Here’s someone who’s used to get their way. Always. Someone like himself. A small voice inside his head whispers that it would be much easier to give in. To anything.

“Really? I expected much more of you,” Fenton muses and leans forward. His carefully arranged hair doesn’t move even a little. “Not even a fight? I’m disappointed, brother.”

“Tell me why I’m here,” Mycroft demands. He will not give into these petty impulses.

“You got the briefing. A terror cell in New York has their roots London. We need to eliminate the leaders here. Our men need to work with yours to flush them out.”

“That doesn’t explain why I’m here.”

“I’ve taken charge of the operation. Haven’t been in London since our dear father threw me and my mother from the estate. I thought it might be nice to reunite the family.”

Mycroft bristles and stands up. “If my only reason to be here is to amuse you, I regret to inform you that I’ll be leaving. I’m not the main contact point for this kind of operation anyway.”

“I personally requested you to be the liaison. And you came because you saw my name on the briefing. It made you feel uneasy. You needed to know.”

Mycroft swallows. “I know enough now. Goodbye.”

“You can’t leave,” Fenton states.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You can never leave, now that you’ve met me, and I can’t leave, now that I’ve met you. Mark my words and remember them. I want to and I will own you. It’s only a matter of time.”

Mycroft wills himself to stay, since every step back would simply be a show of weakness.

“I don’t know what illusions you’re under, dear brother, but I recommend seeing a doctor,” he replies, his voice as hard as steel. “You’re clearly delusional. I’ll recommend another person to take over this trivial case. I will not be dealing with a madman.”

“If I told you to kneel, you would do it.”

Mycroft shivers. Every fiber in his body wants to agree. He is weak to this particular treatment. This disdain. It makes every hair on his body stand on end in revulsion, but it also makes him want to obey. No one talks to Mycroft Holmes like that. No one.

“I would not,” he manages to say.

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“If you’re quite finished…”

“For now, yes. You may leave. But we’re not done. This case isn’t going to be delegated. You’re the one who has to work with me, or the US is calling the whole operation off.”

“You don’t have the power to do that.”

Fenton smiles like a cat. “You’d be surprised.”

Mycroft is drawn in by that smile, his heart once again skipping a beat. That effortless power. It’s… Mycroft shakes his head.

“The issue will be resolved by tomorrow morning. I will personally see to it that you leave the country by then.”

“Even you can’t solve the the whole thing this quickly.”

Now - for the first time - it’s Mycroft’s turn to smile.

“You’d be surprised.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s 7pm as Mycroft returns home. He immediately retires to his study, summons Anthea. His tone leaves no room for contradiction, even though he feels bad for ordering her about like this. He’ll make it up to her somehow. Extended leave, a pay raise. Anthea, bless her, doesn’t even comment. She arrives with two pieces of chocolate cake from Mycroft’s favourite baker. Has sensed that something is off. Mycroft feels so fragile that he is temporarily overwhelmed by her kindness, and conveys his gratitude with a gentle smile.

It’s 4am as Mycroft puts down his phone. Everyone’s in place. They’re moving in. He expects the notice that the terror cell leaders have been captured within half an hour. The impossible made possible, through his hands. He puts his face in both hands. Fenton had played with him. Challenged him to make this happen. And he’d jumped at the opportunity like an eager puppy, trying to prove itself. It doesn’t matter now why he did it. England will be a safer place - the world will be a safer place, and that’s all that matters.

So why does he feel so hollow despite his triumph?

There’s a shy knock on the door, and a head of silver hair peeks around the corner. Mycroft looks up to see Greg’s sleepy smile. Anthea excuses herself immediately. Mycroft tells her to take the day and the following weekend off. As she leaves, she gives Greg an apologetic smile, to which he just shakes his head, and then she is gone.

“Saved the world again?” Greg asks and slips his arms around Mycroft. He’s warm and inviting. Safe. Mycroft melts into him. Soaks Greg’s affection up like a sponge. Doesn’t say a word.

Greg tenses a bit, then kneels down so his face is level with Mycroft’s. He’s obviously less than pleased with what he sees.

“In all honesty, you look like shit. Come to bed.”

Mycroft can only nod. He follows Greg without protest, stays quiet. He keeps his hand on Greg’s body at all times, needs to feel the softness, the safety. As they reach their bedroom and both undress in silence, Greg is obviously unnerved. They slip into bed together and Mycroft immediately crawls into Greg’s arms, buries his head in his chest. He’s not crying, but he feels like it. This is absurd.

“Anything you can tell me?” Greg murmurs, makes it sound like a by-the-way question, but Mycroft knows that he’s concerned. He has every right to be. And while he can’t tell him about the particulars of the mission, he can tell him about… everything else.

Just then his phone beeps. He looks at the message. Culprits apprehended. One casualty among them. None of his own people were harmed. Meeting with Fenton scheduled at 1pm. He shudders, turns off his phone completely.

“I met my brother today,” Mycroft says, keeping a bit of distance between him and Greg. It feels wrong to admit was he’s about to, and still be in his lover’s arms.

“What did Sherlock do?” Greg asks with a sigh.

“I should clarify. Half-brother.”

“Your what?” Greg almost shouts. “How many secret siblings do you have?”

“None anymore,” Mycroft says and can even smile a bit at Greg’s outrage. It really is ridiculous. “Fenton left us when Sherlock was barely six. He doesn’t remember him, just as he didn’t remember Eurus. I… didn’t think he needed to remember.”

Greg frowns, and Mycroft sees his disapproval.

“I know my decisions are not always–”

“Stop it. I might not like how you do it, but you’re always trying your best. I would never criticize you for that. Tell me about him.”

Mycroft mulls this over, but he has long since decided to tell Gregory the whole truth, so he does. He recounts their meeting in detail, even his feelings, his fear, his anxiety. Greg listens and doesn’t judge. Not yet, Mycroft thinks and braces himself.

“Greg… I… I wanted him. Oh god, I wanted him so badly. I…” Mycroft whispers desperately and feels tears running over his face. “I’m so ashamed. He wanted to crush me and I wanted to let him do it. Despite everything. Despite our… oh god, despite everything that we have. I wanted to give myself to him completely. Forgive me… please… I didn’t mean… I didn’t…”

Greg extends his arms and draws Mycroft into them, strokes his back gently as Mycroft sobs against his chest. Mycroft can feels him breath faster, feels his heart speed up. The way he holds him so carefully, as if Mycroft could break at any time, makes him feel worse. More ashamed.

“Do you know why you reacted like that?” Greg says slowly, and the careful consideration in his voice breaks Mycroft’s heart. He tries so hard to be objective, no matter the storm of emotions that must rage in his chest.

“I love you,” Mycroft whispers desperately and reaches for Greg’s head. “I love you so much.”

They kiss as if they’re drowning, reassuring each other of their affection, Greg almost as shaken as Mycroft, a few tears escaping him as well.

“I love you, Mycroft. Never doubt that.”

Mycroft can only nod in response. He curses Fenton for stepping between them, wants to banish him, but at the same time he longs to see him again.

“He’s like me,” Mycroft admits as they’ve calmed down. “He’s more like me than Sherlock or Eurus could ever be. He’s… the one I was supposed to be.”

“Supposed to?”

“My father, he… groomed me to be his successor. I was never worthy of him, not until the day he died. Fenton… he’s everything I should’ve been. He’s my superior. I couldn’t hide anything from him. I’ve never… felt so exposed.”

“And that…”

“Oh god, yes…” Mycroft shakes his head, puts his face in both hands, utterly ashamed, almost not able to voice his desires. “It made me feel… so incredibly aroused. I’ve never… never been seen like that. Not by anyone. I was afraid. And that made it better. Worse.”

Greg hums instead of giving a reply, which makes Mycroft look up, despite his shame.

“I understand,” he finally says. “I mean, it sounds… weird, but I understand. I feel the same when you look at me. When you see everything that I am, and accept me with all my shortcomings and weird kinks… I… I can’t say that I approve, but I can see what made you feel that way.”

Mycroft breathes deeply. It’s okay. It’s not okay. He is confused still, but at least Greg isn’t repulsed. Doesn’t send him away. He could’ve kept quiet about it, but he could never lie to Greg. Could’ve never carried that secret for long. As much as he sees Greg, Greg also sees him.

“There’s something else he said,” Mycroft adds and shivers. “He claimed he wanted to own me. In a way, I think, he does already.”

“Look at me, darling,” Greg says and takes Mycroft’s face into his hands again. “You belong only to yourself. You’re a bit off because it’s been a long night and you’re tired. He’s caught you off guard - believe me, I’m sure he’s done that on purpose. But you’re above that.”

“You’re wrong, love.”

“Why?”

“I don’t belong to myself. Everything that I am belongs completely to you.”


	3. Chapter 3

As the door opens, all three occupants of the room freeze and look up. Fenton Holmes walks into the meeting room like he owns not only the building, but the whole country. There is a self-satisfied smile on his lips, which only deepens as he sees Mycroft standing at the back of the room together with Greg and Anthea. They eye each other thoroughly, before anyone makes another move. Finally Fenton lets out a small laugh.

“Brought the cavalry, dear brother?”

Mycroft doesn’t reply. He thought that knowing what expected him, that his experience from yesterday had prepared him. But as Fenton’s eyes settle on him, he draws in a sharp breath. Greg’s hand tightens on his arm, immediately picking up on Mycroft’s distress. Mycroft turns his head away, towards Anthea, both because he has to address her, but also because he has to look away.

“That will be all. You can wait outside,” he tells her.

“Sir,” Anthea acknowledges and places the stack of papers she has been carrying on the table. “Don’t forget your meeting at 2.”

Mycroft nods. There is no meeting at 2, but stated like this it gives him a convenient exit. He feels ashamed to have to plot this, and he’s quite sure that Fenton sees through every single one of his moves, but it feels much worse to just do… nothing. He can only hope Fenton will be polite enough to respect their ruse. He has a feeling that he won’t be.

Anthea walks with measured steps past Fenton. They share a look that can only be interpreted as one predator sizing up the other. Only that Fenton seems to be rather more amused than threatened. A large jaguar, lounging in his tree, king of the jungle - and he knows it. Mycroft can almost physically feel Greg’s annoyance projecting from him. Then Anthea closes the door behind her and a quiet settles over them.

They have been given a small meeting room in a nondescript government building. It features a long table, several chairs and a view into an inconsequential street from the 5th floor. No one would expect that matters, which could change the world are discussed in such a room - and that’s very much the point. Fenton draws out a chair and sits down. Mycroft mirrors him on the other side of the table. Greg remains standing against the wall behind him, but not without squeezing Mycroft’s arm in a gesture of quiet encouragement. Fenton misses nothing.

“How cute. I’ve seen his picture in the file. Gregory Nicholas Lestrade. Apparently he’s more consequential than I gave him credit for.”

“Leave Gregory out of this,” Mycroft says with a voice that could cut steel. Greg - thank god - stays quiet. Mycroft is glad he can’t see his face. Greg had begged him to accompany him to the debriefing. He had received the quickest high security clearance approval that Whitehall had ever seen. Mycroft wasn’t all that sure it had been a good idea.

“I’m not the one who brought him here,” Fenton replies and throws his hands up. “Fine, fine, if you want him to witness your defeat, be my guest. Now, what have you brought me?”

Mycroft takes a deep breath and pushes the papers across the table. Fenton reaches for the summary of events that lies on top, nods approvingly as he skims it, places it back on the stack.

“Impressive. I didn’t think you had it in you. But I see that this…” he gestures in the general direction of Greg. “… hasn’t slowed you down.”

“What are you implying?”

“Every emotional attachment will in one way or another inconvenience you. It’s only a matter of time. Come on, you grew up with our father. You should know that. This is the least you should remember.”

Mycroft knows exactly what Fenton means. He feels like looking in a mirror - a time-travel mirror, in which he sees himself how he was four years ago. Fenton had obviously sought to derail him with his superior adoption of their father’s doctrines, but in that moment he made a mistake, and just like that the tension flows from Mycroft’s shoulders. He had prepared for a long, tedious discussion. But now he has all the cards in his hand. Because he knows why Fenton talks like this. He knows the inner turmoil, the disappointment and the constant pain that forces him to keep his superior personality at all times.

He knows because he had been like this, before. Before Greg. And now he doesn’t need to be the Iceman anymore. He doesn’t need to keep up his defensive armour at all times. He can be soft and vulnerable, because someone will be there to protect him.

Mycroft can go home. Fenton never had one.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see it earlier,” Mycroft says quietly, and his calm demeanour produces a small crack in Fenton’s facade for the very first time, which is quickly painted over with an angry frown. “If this is everything you need from me regarding the terrorist situation, may I suggest we continue this discussion in a… friendlier environment?”

Mycroft looks back to Greg, who seems momentarily confused, but after seeing Mycroft’s gentle, settled smile, he nods, and Mycroft’s heart almost aches with love for this perfect man, who trusts his decisions without question. He had been willing to accompany him into the lion’s den - more than that, he had been willing to stand down while Mycroft fights his own battle.

“You disgust me,” Fenton hisses and stands up. “This is ridiculous.”

“You’re the one who came to me and made it so, brother,” Mycroft says slowly, his eyes back on Fenton, tracking his every move. Fenton’s hand shows a slight tremor. “I don’t mean to unnerve you. I simply suggested–”

“Enough!” Fenton shouts.

The situation had obviously turned around completely from what he envisioned, and the anger shows on his face. He looks almost scared. Mycroft feels bad for him, even though he knows that Fenton had come into this room - into the country - to make him feel exactly that. To what end, he doesn’t know, and frankly, he doesn’t care anymore. As he looks at the man, who is 12 years his junior, he feels a surge of what he feels for Sherlock, when he is distressed. He looks just as lost, lashing out in panic. Fenton isn’t quite there yet, but he is still young, and Mycroft knows he’ll get there if pushed. He doesn’t want to push him over. He wants to do this gently.

Fenton stares at Greg, his eyes unreadable. He stares at him as if he needs to figure out what this man has done with the brother, who he had admired so much when he was little. Then he reaches for the files and turns to leave the room.

“You’re welcome to visit me anytime,” Mycroft says quietly, before Fenton can leave. “I hope you do.”

The door opens and closes with force. Greg is on his knees next to Mycroft in an instant, reaching for his hands. Mycroft’s eyes have filled with tears. He doesn’t know why. He feels afraid, helpless, lost, despite the courage he had displayed in front of Fenton. He is breathing fast, now that he allows himself to panic, just a little. Greg gathers all of him into his arms and makes it alright again simply by accepting his tears.

“Whatever have I done to deserve you?” Mycroft whispers.

Greg just shakes his head. “You deserve so much more, love.”

Mycroft smiles against Greg’s shoulder and buries himself a bit deeper.

“Do you think he’ll visit?” Greg asks after a while.

“I have a feeling he will.”


	4. Chapter 4

It takes a week until Mycroft hears of Fenton again. The CIA people have retreated to their home country and Mycroft himself had been given special recognition for his work in tracking down the terror cell. He has calmed down as well as can. Which is not much. He could’ve contacted Fenton, but he decided not to force anything. If he has learned anything in dealing with Sherlock, it is that pushing will only ever elicit the opposite of what he wants to achieve.

But what does he want to achieve, anyway? A happy family reunion? It seems absurd. No, that’s not what he really wants. He tries not to think about it, but it’s inevitable. He can’t stop. Fenton’s smile is burned into his memory. It feels dirty just considering any of this. Wrong.

But Fenton is basically a stranger to him. No traces of the boy he once knew remain. And the fact that he sees himself in this man… makes everything seem that much… worse. Better. Definitely worse. Mycroft shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when Fenton reappears. He can’t even judge what his brother would do.

There’s only one truth: He wants Fenton. So badly it hurts.

Mycroft has retreated into his armchair at the Diogenes Club. The day had been too long, the conversations too tedious. Everyone has returned to their normal life rather quickly - as if the episode with Fenton had never happened. Greg has been so understanding, it has almost broken Mycroft’s heart. He has admitted - ears red - that he can see some of what Mycroft had seen in Fenton. It was much of what he has seen in Mycroft at first. But he is still angry at the treatment of his lover, and Mycroft can’t fault him for that.

It is then, with some surprise, that Mycroft looks up to see one of the attendants signal for his attention. He discreetly points into the direction of the door and shows the sign that means he has a guest. When he inquires who it is, the attendant shrugs. No one they have seen before, then. Mycroft nods, which means that the guest should be let inside and he would join them at the entrance.

Mycroft doesn’t ask how Fenton has found him here, but he assures the staff of the Diogenes that he’s quite alright and motions for his brother to follow him, who does so without protest. They walk in silence to the third floor of the building, where Mycroft swipes a keycard to open his own office - then gestures for Fenton to go ahead.

As his brother walks by, Mycroft can’t refrain from taking a good, long look at him. He carries himself with his usual air of self-confidence, a sure step and a presence that makes everyone give way, through there is something in his eyes that breaks the illusion. His hair is slicked back, almost in the same style as Mycroft wears it, only slightly longer. And he has most of it still, Mycroft realises with a wry smile. In figure, he is closer to Sherlock, but so much more slender still. Fenton wears a dark grey, three-piece suit without tie, top two buttons open. Mycroft wants to reach out and brush his fingers against the coarse cloth, but he restrains himself, waits for Fenton to enter the room, then closes the door behind them.

“Impressive. Very… traditional,” Fenton opens the conversation as he walks around the room, fingers touching various objects. “You spend much time here.”

It’s a statement, not a question. Mycroft gets the feeling that Fenton doesn’t deal in questions much. One more thing they have in common.

“You’ve decided to visit.”

“Obviously,” Fenton replies, and his eye-roll is so very Holmesian that Mycroft almost smiles. “You want to know why.”

“I know why. You don’t want to lose.”

Fenton locks eyes with him, in what feels like a challenge, but then he quickly looks away again, observes the landscape painting on the wall. A stormy sky over the highlands. It’s a massive painting, impressive in its dimensions and bold use of colour.

“You haven’t painted in years,” Fenton says, not answering the unasked question between them. “Pity. This is rather good.”

“I don’t have that kind of time anymore.”

They stand in silence for a while, then Fenton shakes his head.

“I should’ve never come here. This is not how all of this was supposed to go.”

Mycroft crosses his arms, raises one eyebrow. “Ah, yes. I was supposed to grovel at your feet, was that it?”

“I had eliminated all traces of this family from my life,” Fenton says, not meeting Mycroft’s eyes. “Except my surname. I couldn’t take my mother’s after… well. If you want to know what happened to her, read my file. The real one. I swore never to return to the land of my father, who cast us out. But when this opportunity came along, I was weak. And this one moment of weakness lead to… this.”

“Because I wasn’t who you were expecting?”

“Because you were exactly what I hoped you’d be. I had always seen in you my better, Mycroft. I’ve come here to prove you were not, but you know how that ended. I’m here now so you can properly tell me to fuck off. And if you tell me, I will. And then this ends, as it should.”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I won’t do that.”

Fenton finally looks up, any his eyes are hard, but empty.

“I know why you’re here. People are… not enough. You’re tired of slowing down. You’re tired of maintaining bonds that are always destined to break. I… understand very well,” Mycroft says, his voice suddenly thick with emotion, but he forces himself to talk on, even though he feels tears forming in his eyes. This is not easy. This has never been easy. But he has been carried through this, and by god, he will help his brother get through it as well. “You think you are destined to remain alone forever, and you can’t bear it anymore.”

Fenton open his mouth, as if he wants to says that Mycroft doesn’t understand, but if anyone can see the mirror that’s been held up, it’s him. It’s the obvious truth, and denying it would be denying his own ability to find it.

“So you’ve exposed my sad, little secret. Good on you.”

“Sarcasm will not help you here. Neither will snide remarks. You can either accept the truth, or leave and continue with your life as before. But the fact you’re here tells me you don’t want the latter.”

“I can’t just… just…”

Mycroft shakes his head. “I know. But I can give you what you want, and then, maybe you will see this in another light… will see me in another light.”

Fenton swallows. “And what is it that I want?”

Mycroft walks over to him in measured steps, his own heartbeat speeding up at the mere thought of what he’s about to do. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. It’s wrong. Everything in him screams. But he doesn’t disguise his expression, and Fenton grows wide-eyed as he realises. Soon they’re standing eye to eye, mere inches apart. Mycroft takes a deep breath and… smoothly slides down, to his knees, looking up at his brother, who is still frozen, with a challenge in his eyes.

“You said you will own me. Then own me.”


	5. Chapter 5

The silence stretches between them. No word is uttered, no muscle moved. The brothers stare into each other’s eyes, judging without any motion. Mycroft wills himself to hold still, hands balled into fists, the magnitude of what he has just offered very clear to him. He knows he wants it. Badly. No matter what anyone else might say. And Fenton wants it too - his body has screamed for it since they first locked eyes. As much as Fenton has seen Mycroft’s desire, Mycroft has seen his. It had come as a surprise, but in hindsight it was inevitable.

Mycroft has offered, but the line is still there. It isn’t crossed until Fenton moves. It might be cowardly to let his brother perform this first act of sacrilege, but he won’t be the one to force it. He can only show that he is willing, despite everything. Or maybe because.

He doesn’t know how long they’re locked in this stalemate, but then Fenton extends his hand, cautiously, towards Mycroft’s face. His fingers touch the skin of Mycroft’s cheek, brushing tentatively at first, then cupping his face properly. It’s the first time they touch, and it’s almost a reverent moment, more profound than its simplicity would suggest. Mycroft’s breath hitches as Fenton’s hand wanders slowly to his neck, fingers tangling in his short hair.

“If you let me, I’ll be there for you,” Mycroft whispers, presses his head into Fenton’s hand like a cat. “I want to be. The pain I see in you makes me hurt, because I know exactly how it stings. It doesn’t have to.”

“I thought you would reject me,” Fenton breathes and kneels down, so they’re face to face, puts his second hand also on Mycroft’s head. “I thought you would send me away, just like father. That you would be exactly like him. I wanted to own you because I thought there wouldn’t be another way.”

Mycroft shakes his head, gathers his emotions. “I’ve never met anyone like you. Our siblings pale in comparison to what I see in your eyes. You see me. You see me like no one else has ever seen me.”

Fenton stares at Mycroft in what can only be described as wonder. He swallows.

“You see me too,” he whispers. “And maybe that’s all I wanted.”

He crashes against Mycroft, kissing him hungrily like he’s drowning and Mycroft is his only source of air. He moves so suddenly that they fall over, onto the plush carpet, Mycroft on his back. Fenton has both his hands fisted in Mycroft’s hair, pressing him to the floor with his body, kissing so hard he fears it might bruise. As he sucks on his tongue, Mycroft can’t help but moan into his mouth, hands grabbing at Fenton’s suit desperately. Their moves are far from elegant, but neither one cares.

As they finally part, Fenton still looms over Mycroft - both are breathing fast and hard. Fenton’s eyes are wild, swirling with emotion. There is something in air between them that is indescribable, carefully cultivated facades crumbled away, emotions pouring out so freely it overwhelms them both. Mycroft sees every bit of Fenton’s pain, desire and loneliness on his face, and he can’t breathe. He wants to take every single one of his emotions and bury them inside his own chest, where they can’t hurt his brother anymore.

Where they are pressed together, both can feel that their actions have left them incredibly aroused. They look at each other for a few seconds, questioning, unsure, until Mycroft nods ever so slightly. Fenton dips his head lower and attacks Mycroft’s neck, just under his ear. And he bites down hard. Mycroft lets out a groan that’s pure pleasure. Every part of his body wants to get closer to Fenton, while every part of his mind still screams to get away. He has known the man for less than a day. He is his half-brother. They are on the floor in his office. Every thought makes him both feel incredibly ashamed and amazingly turned on.

Then his phone rings. Both men freeze. Mycroft reaches for his pocket. It’s Greg. Then the phone goes silent. A text message arrives.

I’m outside the club.

Mycroft stares at Fenton, who in turn draws back from him, until he’s back on his feet. He turns away, clearing his throat. Mycroft lies on the floor, lost and suddenly very cold.

“I better go,” Fenton says quietly, suddenly sobered up.

“Do you want to go?” Mycroft manages to say after he stands up.

Fenton shakes his head. “There’s nothing for me back there. But there’s nothing for me here either.”

There’s a knock at the door, and then it opens slowly. Greg enters and closes the door behind him. He eyes Mycroft and sees the bite on his neck immediately. Fenton doesn’t look apologetic. In Greg’s presence, he easily slips back into his superior personality - the earlier confusion and hurt in his eyes overplayed with a certain coldness. You wouldn’t dare to say anything, his eyes seem to convey.

“Fenton,” Greg says curtly.

They have talked about this. The possibility. But here, together in the room, with an unknown variable staring them into the face, it feels different. More immediate. Scary. Mycroft is still breathing hard, trying desperately not to touch the bruise on his neck, to cover it up in shame. Because he doesn’t want to be. But Greg is looking at him, and everything rests on him right now. Mycroft doesn’t know how he’d react in his position. He is - for the first time in a very long while - properly scared. Greg doesn’t ask what they’ve been doing. It’s obvious, even to someone without a Holmesian talent for deduction.

“Lestrade,” Fenton replies. It feels like the calm before the storm.

Greg sighs and cards his fingers through his hair, then turns around to lock the door. Fenton tenses. This is obviously not what he has been expecting. Greg proceeds to walk over to Mycroft and looks deeply into his eyes. Forgive me, Mycroft tries to project. I’m powerless. Greg gives him the sweetest smile and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. I understand, his eyes respond. It’s fine, his body replies as he presses himself against Mycroft.

“And, honestly?” Greg whispers into Mycroft’s ear. “It’s really working for me.”

He lowers his head and finds the spot that Fenton has bruised, then applies his own teeth to it. Mycroft howls in pain, but most of it is surprised pleasure, as he is pushed back into a nearby wall, Greg crowding him against it. His arousal flares up as sharply as before, as he is pushed back by two strong hands, who pin his own against the polished wooden paneling. He is moaning a name, but it isn’t Greg’s. The silver-haired man smiles against his neck, then turns his head.

“Don’t you want to join us? It seems you’ve been invited.”


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft’s head swims. His body betrays him, uttering low moans as Greg grinds against him. His eyes are resolutely closed - he can’t bear to look at Fenton right now. He can’t even think about him. That he might turn away, refuse this gift. If he walks out now, Mycroft will shatter. It’s utterly wrong to feel like that, especially when the love of his life is in his arms, but he can’t help it. From the very first moment he has laid eyes on his youngest brother, he had felt like a piece of him, like an extension of his own body. He needs to melt the two into one, no matter the cost. The desire burns in him like a flame - the only thing brighter than that is the love he feels for Greg right now, never stronger than in the moment when his lover, his partner, allows him to burn away in this absurd situation, this impossible scenario.

“I love you,” he whispers, for Greg’s ears only. “I love you, I love you, I love you…”

It feels like an inadequate expression for the feelings he harbours, but Greg seems to understand. He lets go of Mycroft’s wrists and wraps his arms around him instead, presses their two bodies impossibly close together. Their lips find each other and they trade a long and dirty kiss, which almost brings Mycroft to his knees. Greg alone can make him forget who he is, but the knowledge of Fenton watching them makes Mycroft almost blank out.

“I love you too, you impossible man. Do you still want this?”

Mycroft can only nod, words failing him. Greg nods in response. He taps on Mycroft’s back in a certain rhythm. Mycroft knows exactly what it means. He only needs to safeword and Greg will end it all. No matter what Fenton does, he will take care of him. And with that last bit of knowledge he lets go completely.

Greg steps behind him, so he’s now between the wall and Mycroft. He takes both of Mycroft’s wrists and holds them securely behind his back, so that Mycroft is pinned in place, exposed to… Fenton, who has watched the whole display with wide eyes, frozen in place. Mycroft gazes at him, already panting, body too hot.

“Please…” Mycroft breathes, his erection twitching in his trousers at the mere thought of Fenton’s hands on him. “Please, brother…”

It’s the way that Mycroft says brother that has Fenton visually undone. The way he projects everything that is wrong with the current situation into that one word, whispering it desperately, laying his own heart bare. He steps closer and brings a hand up to Mycroft’s face, fingertips tracing his jaw gently, as he looks beyond him, into Greg’s eyes. Mycroft doesn’t know what messages are exchanged between them, but Fenton nods ever so slightly, before turning his attention back on Mycroft.

It takes a few seconds of gazing in wonder, before Fenton’s eyes snap back to that same cold, haughty stare he had worn when they had first seen each other. He reaches for Mycroft’s tie and pulls him forward, so that he’s stretched between both of their hands, holding him resolutely in place. Mycroft is almost ashamed of the moan that this simple action forces out of him. Fenton places his mouth next to his ear.

“You can’t hide anything from me, dear brother. I see your body screaming, and I understand every plea. Give yourself to me and I’ll make you sing.”

“Yes…” Mycroft hisses. “Everything you want. I’ll give you everything.”

“I’ll remind you of that when you’re on the floor.”

Mycroft hears a sharp breath being drawn behind him, but the anatomy pressing against his arse is very obviously excited about Fenton’s promise, which only adds to his own arousal. He still can’t believe that Greg is going through with this. Is doing that for him. He’s not sure if he could ever--

“Stop thinking,” Fenton hisses, and his voice is as hard as a slap.

He reaches for Mycroft’s tie and loosens the knot, so he can slip it over his head, not throwing it away, but storing it in his pocket for later. He opens Mycroft’s jacket and the top few buttons of his shirt, letting his fingers glide along his neck, then down over his exposed chest. As they brush a nipple, Mycroft lets out an involuntary gasp. It feels impossible that he should be able to get more turned on, but he is, and it feels glorious.

“More, please,” he whispers. “Your hands… your mouth… anything.”

Fenton smirks and leans down, draws his tongue down the exact same path that his fingers have taken, then latches onto Mycroft’s nipple and sucks immediately, relentlessly. Mycroft throws his head back, but the motion only pushes his chest further towards Fenton, who takes the opportunity to rip open the rest of his shirt - buttons flying everywhere. And for once Mycroft can’t even begin to care. Greg’s fingers dig into his arms, where he struggles to hold him as he squirms, and then his lover’s lips are on his neck, sucking a bruise in a counterpoint to Fenton. Between the two, Mycroft almost passes out from pleasure, and they haven’t even begun yet. It courses through his body, acutely aware of the two people that bestow it on him.

Then Fenton begins to open his trousers and Mycroft is suddenly very still, body tensing in anticipation, the only thing audible is his hard breathing, sounding like he’s almost about to come already. As Fenton’s fingers move down, he starts to shiver, erection straining against its confines. The change is noticeable, and Greg smiling against his neck. Fenton stills his hands as well, detaches his lips, looks up.

“So eager, dear brother?” he asks sweetly.

Mycroft takes a moment to catch his breath, then he manages to narrow his eyes. “I don’t care how many times you use me, but make me come right now. Please. I can’t take it anymore…”

“You seem to be under the impression that you’re making the rules tonight,” Fenton says, and drops his half-done job. Mycroft’s flies are open, but his cock is still trapped. “Let me remind you who’s in charge.”

With a quick glance at Greg, they shove Mycroft to the floor, and he drops on his knees with a surprised gasp. He looks up at Fenton, who has opened his own trousers in record time, freeing his own erection.

“Hold his head, would you?” he asks and Greg obliges immediately, his fingers carding through Mycroft’s hair first, then tightening their grasp. “I don’t want him to think he can get away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is filth. utter filth. why am i still writing this.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft opens his mouth without even having to be asked. He closes his eyes as Fenton traces his fingers over his face, traces his lips, then dips them in, dragging them over his tongue. Mycroft is already breathing heavily, but he holds still, even though the urge to lick those long, elegant fingers is growing. He hears Fenton take himself in hand, the slick sound of a few strokes and he swallows in anticipation.

“Don’t choke,” Fenton murmurs and pushes in, as far as he can go.

Mycroft’s eyes fly open as his head is pressed down by two pairs of hands and in that moment his body protests, goes rigid from the perceived threat, but then he feels Greg’s fingers tightening in his hair and he relaxes. Greg will never let him get hurt. As long as Greg is there, Mycroft doesn’t have to think.

As Fenton pulls back, Mycroft draws in a deep breath, manages to lick his lips once, then he is finally being used. He loves the feeling of a cock sliding over his tongue and closes his eyes as Fenton fucks his mouth without pause. He feels spit running down, tears in his eyes. His hands tighten on Fenton’s trousers as his head is being held in place and he can do nothing but take it. His cock is tenting his underwear where it peeks out from his half-opened fly and he feels it pulse with every push that he take. He would moan if that were possible, but as it is he can only voice his need in short gasps and breaths, whimpering as he is being used for Fenton’s pleasure. The mere thought of it – of being in this situation – is already keeping him so hard that it’s almost painful.

Then Fenton pushes in again, Mycroft’s nose against his body, holding him down so that all air is cut off. Mycroft can’t breathe, can’t think. He feels himself tense, feels his skin crawl. He almost comes at the display of power, but then he hears a voice distracting him.

“I want him on the floor,” Fenton says and it’s clear he’s talking to Greg.

Mycroft doesn’t see his lover’s answer, but suddenly he can breathe again and gasps desperately, his face wet with tears. He almost falls over, but then Fenton’s hand is at his collar and he pulls him forward, both balancing and unbalancing him. He pulls so that Mycroft has to follow him on his knees as to not fall and finally pushes him down on the plush carpet in front of the fireplace. Mycroft falls over, on his back, panting.

Then Fenton comes to stand above him, one foot on each side, next to his hips. Mycroft sees the same cold eyes that had drawn him in on that very first day, but also a smile that makes it so much better. It feels right being here. It feels right to lie at Fenton’s feet – at his mercy. Every cell in his body screams danger. It’s simply wrong. Mycroft feels ashamed that such a position would turn him on so much, but that only makes it better.

He watches his brother toe of his shoes and send them flying to the far side of the room. A socked foot wanders over his body, up to his neck and is placed on his throat. It takes only slight pressure for Mycroft to almost convulse. He moans loudly, head thrown back, eyes closed. His arms lie useless at his side, not even trying to move. This is where he wanted – where he needed to be.

Then he sees Greg kneeling behind his head, bending over him to reach for Mycroft’s hands. He draws them over his head and pins them to the floor with both of his own. Mycroft squeezes Greg’s fingers tightly. He is glad that Greg is here. Glad that they are holding hands so he can safeword without a word. Fenton is an unknown variable. The fear of not knowing what he’s about to do next is doing everything for Mycroft, but he knows he could never let go like this without Greg in the room. He owes his partner everything for this. Everything he could ever want.

Fenton presses down with his foot again – just a reminder of his presence, then lets his foot trail down until he reaches Mycroft’s crotch. His socked toes trace along Mycroft’s erection and the man gasps at the pressure, presses his body upwards. Fenton chuckles.

“You wanted to get off, didn’t you? Well, this is all you get.”

Mycroft whines as the pressure increases and Fenton rubs his foot against him. He is so keyed up that even the slightest touch is almost enough to bring him off, but the vision of his brother, completely put together, cruel smile on his face, stroking himself leisurely while he pleasures Mycroft with his foot is too much for him too handle. He cries and strains, fingers digging into Greg’s hands as he comes inside his underwear, crumbling at Fenton’s feet.

“Oh, but you look delicious like this…” Fenton murmurs as he traces Mycroft’s softening cock with his toes. “So eager, brother… So beautiful…”

He strokes himself faster, groaning in pleasure, then falls to his knees over Mycroft’s head, entering his mouth again. It takes only few pushes for him to still and pulse down Mycroft’s throat.


End file.
